They're coming to take me away -- ho-ho, he-he, ha-ha -- to the funny farm where life is beautiful all the time, and I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats, and they're coming to take me away -- ha-ha -- to the happy home with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes, and they're coming to take me away, ha-ha. (Song by Napoleon XIV)
If only it were true. It would be like a spa vacation -- a couple of months or years parked on a chair in a big field, surrounded by nuts like me. I could write and write and write and write ... I'd be interrupted occasionally by someone's imaginary friend or roll call, but then I'd go back to being invisible. No one would notice if I talked to myself and walked in circles snapping my fingers.
I just threatened to tape Ashlyn to the toilet if she didn't at least try going potty like a big girl, to which she responded laughing, "No sit on the potty." And within five minutes Jerod was changing a poopy diaper. She knows how to use it; I know that she does. But she thinks it's funny to tell me "NO."
I tried bribing her with cookies.
"Chocolate?" She asked, interested.
"We don't have any chocolate," I told her. "But we do have lots of yummy cookies."
"No Chocolate?" She asked mischievously. "No potty."
And that was that.
I know there's a lot of psychology around potty training -- forcing your children to use the toilet before they're ready leads to low self esteem, sexual deviancy and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I'm sure Robert Yates, Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway all became serial killers because their mothers made them flush their poop friends down toilet.
I have daughters -- killing spree averted.
Ashlyn can change her own diaper -- even if she doesn't wipe. If that's not a neon flashing sign from God that reads "Potty train that kid already" I don't know what is.
Parenting for Dummies might tell me that Ashlyn has developed an emotional bond with the mess in her diaper -- perhaps she resents me.
Maybe it's all to do with her birth -- when the nurses told me she wasn't coming, and I told them, "oh yes she is," and the nurses said I had plenty of time to get the epidural, and I said, "oh no I don't," and the nurses said, "just wait." And the only thing that was numb when Ashlyn was crowning and I was screaming "get it out, get it out," was my foot.
I guess it's possible that her refusal to use the toilet is revenge for my calling her "It," despite the nurse's repeated reminders that "She's not an It. She's your baby, Ashlyn."
The reason -- founded or otherwise -- doesn't matter. I will convince my daughter to poop on the toilet. If it takes a couple of trips to the funny farm so be it. Some day Ashlyn will be wiping her own butt and sleeping in her own bed. I just know it.
If only it were true. It would be like a spa vacation -- a couple of months or years parked on a chair in a big field, surrounded by nuts like me. I could write and write and write and write ... I'd be interrupted occasionally by someone's imaginary friend or roll call, but then I'd go back to being invisible. No one would notice if I talked to myself and walked in circles snapping my fingers.
I just threatened to tape Ashlyn to the toilet if she didn't at least try going potty like a big girl, to which she responded laughing, "No sit on the potty." And within five minutes Jerod was changing a poopy diaper. She knows how to use it; I know that she does. But she thinks it's funny to tell me "NO."
"Chocolate?" She asked, interested.
"We don't have any chocolate," I told her. "But we do have lots of yummy cookies."
"No Chocolate?" She asked mischievously. "No potty."
And that was that.
I know there's a lot of psychology around potty training -- forcing your children to use the toilet before they're ready leads to low self esteem, sexual deviancy and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I'm sure Robert Yates, Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway all became serial killers because their mothers made them flush their poop friends down toilet.
I have daughters -- killing spree averted.
Ashlyn can change her own diaper -- even if she doesn't wipe. If that's not a neon flashing sign from God that reads "Potty train that kid already" I don't know what is.
Parenting for Dummies might tell me that Ashlyn has developed an emotional bond with the mess in her diaper -- perhaps she resents me.
Maybe it's all to do with her birth -- when the nurses told me she wasn't coming, and I told them, "oh yes she is," and the nurses said I had plenty of time to get the epidural, and I said, "oh no I don't," and the nurses said, "just wait." And the only thing that was numb when Ashlyn was crowning and I was screaming "get it out, get it out," was my foot.
I guess it's possible that her refusal to use the toilet is revenge for my calling her "It," despite the nurse's repeated reminders that "She's not an It. She's your baby, Ashlyn."
The reason -- founded or otherwise -- doesn't matter. I will convince my daughter to poop on the toilet. If it takes a couple of trips to the funny farm so be it. Some day Ashlyn will be wiping her own butt and sleeping in her own bed. I just know it.
Yes she will. My daughter is 10 and my son is 7 and while I haven't hit the teenage years yet, I do believe potty training was the hardest thing we have done as parents (one was three and the other three and a half) but it will happen. That being said, despite that late potty training they are both smart, capable kids. Someone said to me that it was an easy win. Either they got potty trained or you didn't have to worry when they started dating because they wouldn't let anyone know they still had a diaper on.
ReplyDeleteThere's a bright side to everything -- thanks for your support!
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